Right Uppercut
by TwistingMoonbeam
Summary: Stan wants to teach Dipper how to box. Dipper doesn't want to learn how to box. ONESHOT. R&R appreciated!


**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Hola, readers! Please note that this oneshot takes place before the "Hands Off!" short in "Little Gift Shop of Horrors" and is my own little headcanon about where Dipper's sweet punches at the attacking hands came from. Thanks!

- TwistingMoonbeam

**Right Uppercut: A Gravity Falls Oneshot**

**xXx**

"You want to _what_?"

Stan held firm against Dipper's outburst, arms folded across his chest. "You heard me, kid. Boxing 101. You and me. Tomorrow morning."

Dipper opened his mouth to argue, but all he could do was splutter. Where in the world had _this _come from? He'd just been sitting on the dinosaur skull in the den, skimming through the journal, _minding his own business_, when Grunkle Stan had approached him with the idea—scratch that, the _demand_, that he start teaching Dipper how to box.

"You've got nothing better to do, anyway," Stan went on, ogling Journal #3 with disdain.

Dipper scowled. "Mabel and I were gonna go look for trolls tomorrow morning!"

"Just go snap a picture of Toby Determined," Stan said, rolling his eyes.

"Grunkle Stan, I don't even _want _to learn how to box."

"No one does. That doesn't mean you're not gonna learn how to do it." Stan left, throwing a helmet and a sickly yellow uniform over his shoulder.

Dipper flicked the uniform off his lap, groaning. "When was the last time you _washed _this?"

"That doesn't matter," was all Stan offered as a reply.

That's how Dipper found himself awake at eight the next morning, dressed in the scrubbed clean uniform, helmet pushing his hair up like broccoli, and staring into the mirror, feeling like an idiot.

The uniform was riding up in uncomfortable places. Going down the stairs in awkward little hops, Dipper saw through the window that Stan was up and about, constructing a makeshift little boxing ring out of rope and mailboxes. After gobbling down a quick breakfast, Dipper crept outside, shivering in the early morning chill.

"Hey, kid, what's shakin'?" Grunkle Stan asked, patting his hands against his boxers.

"Um, whose mailboxes are those?" Dipper asked.

"Oh, those? They're, uh, my friends'. They were gifts."

"This one's from Kentucky."

"Okay, so they were 'unwilling' gifts. That's not important. What _is _important, though, is your first lesson."

Dipper sighed. "Is this really necessary?"

In reply, Stan held up the rope for Dipper to enter.

Being in the center of the ring made Dipper feel queasy. There was no one around, but it felt like all eyes were on him. Or maybe it was because Stan's eyes were just so heavy with remembrance that it was as if an anvil had been strapped to Dipper's back.

Stan dumped a pair of boxing gloves into Dipper's arms. The leather was rough, and the right palm had a hole with stuffing pouring out. Sliding his hands in, Dipper felt like he was putting his hands under a guillotine.

"First things first," said Stan, putting on his own gloves with ease. "Empty your mind, kid. Now I know this is probably hard, considerin' your head's the size of Saturn, but just relax. I'm not gonna kill you or anything…probably."

Dipper gulped. His head starting to brim over with worries and escape plans.

"We're gonna start with the basics. Number one: footwork." Stan stretched, knocking his gloves against his knees, as if firing himself up. "Your dominant foot's gotta be in the front, and you're slanted slightly, like this."

Dipper copied, placing his right leg in front and keeping his left leg back, perched for a getaway.

"Good. Number two: the six core punches. Jab, cross, left and right hook, and left and right uppercut." Stan demonstrated each punch with a kind of intensity Dipper had never seen before from his uncle. "'Cause you're a shortstack, it'd probably be best to focus on uppercuts. With them, you don't have to be in line or face to face with your opponent: you can hit 'em right where they ain't expecting it. Now, show me your right uppercut."

Dipper furrowed his brow and tightened his fists. He swung at the foam shield Stan was holding up with all his might, but Stan didn't move an inch.

"That's all ya got?" Stan asked in disbelief.

"Uhh…well…" Dipper tried to shake off his blush. "Lemme try again."

And so he did, with even less success than his last attempt. Stan was an immovable fortress: the only thing stonier than his body was his expression. After Dipper's fourth uppercut, Stan sighed and stopped him.

"Kid, you're doin' it all wrong. Uppercut power comes from the legs. You're puttin' too much strength into your noodle arms."

"They're not _noodles_," Dipper growled.

"Tell that to the Chinese chef that came by yesterday asking for you," Stan quipped. "Let's go again. Focus on the legs."

Dipper did, but Stan still wasn't appeased. Getting on one knee, Stan demonstrated his uppercut again, feigning punching Dipper in the chin. "Ya gotta come from below. It's all about the power from coming from under the sorry sap. That's how you catch 'em off guard enough to get some jabs in." Throwing the shield to the side, Stan pointed to his own chin. "Aim right here."

"What!" Dipper exclaimed. "I'm not hitting you!"

"Oh, yeah, like you've never wanted to before," Stan said, rolling his eyes. "Just channel that pouty-thing you do whenever I tell you to clean the bathroom or somethin'."

Truth be told, Dipper had imagined taking down Stan before. Stan could just be so…so…_Stan. _He was pushy, faulty, and crankiness personified. He had a few screws loose. He was the reason Dipper was awake so early in the middle of the _summer. _Wasn't this Dipper's opportunity for fun and adventure? Why was he stuck with Stan outside in a makeshift boxing ring, resisting an urge he couldn't deny?

Upon Dipper's continued hesitation, Stan straightened, the pops that came from his back making a nearby gathering of birds emerge from their tree and rush the pale sky. "Ain't gonna sock me one, huh, kid?"

"I…I…" Dipper lowered his gloves. "No, I'm not."

Instead of getting mad, Stan scratched his chin and analyzed Dipper. His expression mimicked when he was thinking of ways to con a particularly difficult customer. If Dipper knew anything about his Grunkle Stan, it was that he respected a challenge.

"Okay," Stan said finally. "I gotcha, I gotcha. How 'bout, instead, we do a role play."

"Role play?" Dipper hadn't been expecting this: Stan using tactics that didn't include yelling? Maybe Dipper was still asleep.

"Yup." Jerking his chin, Stan cracked his knuckles. "Look that way while I set up."

Uneasily, Dipper obeyed, gazing out into the woods. Sunlight was beginning to filter through the leaves, making the place looker cheerier than it actually was. For a moment, he wondered what other mysteries he'd encounter out there, deep in the dark, and what else was waiting to be discovered—

Something hooked around his neck, slightly cutting off his air supply. Dipper realized it was Stan's arm, muscled and thick, and he grabbed at it, crying out, "What the—_what are you doing_?"

"Remember that time I made you adjust the satellite dish in the pouring rain 'cause I wanted to catch the finale to _The Duchess_—I mean, wrestling?"

Dipper did—it'd taken hours to dry out his clothes and he'd caught a bad cold—but he didn't know why _that _awful memory was relevant.

"Grunkle Stan, c'mon—"

"Or the time I made you wear that aluminum foil suit for five hours for a tour to look like Luster Lad?"

_Yeah_, he did, Dipper recalled angrily. Short on attractions, Stan had forced Dipper to wear a wrap of aluminum foil all over his body to pose as some mythological oddity known as Luster Lad, a boy made entirely of light. He'd gotten a rash. Mabel had taken pictures.

"_Grunkle Stan, this is dumb_—"

"How 'bout that time I played that coin trick on you in front of Wendy and you freaked out?"

Dipper's face flushed. Stan had pulled a coin out of Dipper's ear, and it had startled him so much that he'd yelped like a puppy in front of Wendy. Needless to say, Wendy hadn't forgotten about it, nor did Dipper think she ever would.

Dipper twisted out of Stan's hold and glared up at him, fists trembling. "Stop it!"

But Stan didn't back down. "Ha! Whadaya gonna do about it, pipsqueak? You can't even reach!"

"I can—" Dipper winced. Stan towered over him, blocking out the sun like some huge, annoying eclipse. What _was _he going to do?

"Maybe I _should've _taught Mabel," Stan boasted. "At least she can take a hit."

"Of course she can!" Dipper cried, exasperated. "She's Mabel! She can do everything I can't!"

"Then again," Stan went on, musing, "the kid can be _prreeeettyyy _annoying. And _loud_."

Dipper frowned. "Well, yeah, I mean—"

"I'm surprised she hasn't gotten a heat stroke in those dumb sweaters of hers."

"They're—they're not dumb!"

"She's creepy, too. She's stalked more than ten boys in the Shack so far this summer."

Dipper ground his teeth, getting in his uncle's face. "Don't talk about her that way."

Stan shot him a vicious grin. "Your sister, huh? What a _weirdo_."

Dipper's fist gained a mind of its own. With a force he hadn't known he'd had, he brought his fist up to connect with Stan's face, knocking his uncle back. The whole thing lasted only two seconds: Stan was on the ground, Dipper's breathing was hitched, and his knuckles, a bright cherry red, throbbed.

Stan sat up, mending to his jaw, the corner swelling purplish blue. He stared at Dipper. "You…you punched me."

Speechless, Dipper felt his arms flop to his sides, weak and noodley again, only now his right one hurt. "I…I…I…" he stammered.

"You _right uppercutted _me." Stan was shocked.

"You wouldn't stop talking about Mabel!" Dipper yelled, his palms going sweaty in the gloves. "What—I don't know what came over me, but you weren't listening and you were saying such awful—"

Dipper was cut off by the sound of guffawing. Stan was holding his sides, his howling laughter echoing into the woods and sky.

"_Why are you laughing_?" Dipper shouted.

Stan rose, wiping laughter tears away from under his glasses. "Just…I just…wow. Kid. Jeez Louise! Talk about some role play, huh?"

"Role play?" Dipper was hopelessly confused.

"I _knew _you could box. That uppercut was bananas!" Stan winked. "Ya just needed the right push."

"So…you didn't mean any of that stuff you said about Mabel?"

"Of course not! I'm not _that _awful. I was just unleashing the beast!" Stan chuckled. "And lemme tell ya, kid, your beast is _wild_."

Dipper couldn't help it. A goofy grin spread across his face. "It is?"

Stan hissed under breath, lightly tapping his blooming bruise. "I think that's enough 101 for today. We're gonna need some ice."

"We? Oh." Dipper winced, running a finger along his bruising knuckles.

"I knew you had it in ya, kid." Stan nodded to himself, smiling smugly. "_Eeeeeveryone_ just needs that push."

Dipper was suddenly brought back to when he'd seen Stan's memories, remembering a specific one about Stan's first boxing lesson. Hadn't _he _been the one under the larger opponent? Hadn't _he _been the scrawny, short underdog? And yet he'd persevered—and _won_. He'd unleashed his own beast. _Y'know, that time I thought my pop was trying to torture me. But wouldn't you know it? The old man was doin' me a favor all along! _

"Hey, kid," Stan called. "Ya gonna keep starin' into space or are ya comin' in?" He held the rope up to let Dipper pass underneath.

Dipper smiled and jogged to keep up with his uncle, having a feeling he'd be back in the boxing ring with him very soon.


End file.
